He lay for quite an hour staring up at the plaster ceiling which was peeling after many years of neglect. He tried to recall what had occurred.
Mistily he remembered his desperate fight for liberty, and how old Claribut had eventually clubbed him with a short, pliable life-preserver.
It seemed to be again morning. His lips were parched, his throat contracted, and he felt feverish and ill. Water was there, and he managed to reach it.
“What can I do?” he cried faintly to himself. “I must get out of this. I must! How many days have I been here, I wonder?” and again his hand felt his chin. The growth of beard had increased, and by it he knew that already he must have been there a week—or even more.
For the hundredth time he glanced at the heavy old door, and saw how a small panel had been sawn out near the bottom to admit the introduction of the plate and jug. The mysterious hand that fed him was that of the old man whom he recollected as having been at Willowden. Outwardly the old fellow seemed feeble, but he certainly was the reverse when put to the test.
Roddy ambled across to where his raincoat lay upon the stones. In its pocket was the cigar-box, two coils of wire—aerial and “earth”—and the head-’phones. He opened the box and, as far as he could discover, it was intact. But of what use was it?
He sighed and slowly packed it back into the pocket of the coat, which afterwards he dropped back upon the spot whence he had picked it up.
Suddenly he heard a footstep outside and the panel in the door was slid back, the grey evil face of old Claribut being revealed in the aperture.
“Hulloa!” he exclaimed with a harsh laugh. “So you’ve come to your senses again—eh? I hope you liked what I gave you for attacking me, young man?”
“I only tried to escape,” was Roddy’s reply.